


Altered Perceptions Part 1: Topsy Turvy

by HPFanNate



Series: Altered Perceptions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFanNate/pseuds/HPFanNate
Summary: a life is turned upside down, certain beliefs may be bolstered, but are things what they seem?





	

He paused and stared out the window, sweat rolling down his face, arms fatigued, and his whole body tired and weary. It was a very nice day, weather wise, and if he could, he’d be out there, playing, enjoying it. His home – what had been his home – had been kept dark and cold, and he enjoyed being able to get out in the sunshine. But now he was in a strange place, with strange people, and none of them would explain why they were doing what they’d done, or say anything except to give him orders and to berate him if they didn’t think he was doing what they wanted him too. Again, he went back to what had happened, not that it helped his confusion any.

Several Weeks Prior:  
“I’m going outside mummy. I wanna play!” he told her, slightly whiny, and in a determined manner. He’d get to go out today. He just knew it.   
His mum merely shook her head, murmuring “There are dangers… No. I am worried. Very worried. Your father will be home soon, anyway. We need to get you looking smart for when he gets here. Come.” He followed his mum up to his room where she combed his hair and changed him into clean clothes – he could do it himself, but liked it when she did it for him. Despite being unhappy about not being able to play, he was filled with pride at his clothing and how he would look when his father got home. Kissing his cheek, mum took his hand and led him downstairs and set him some studies. He knew he needed to learn all of this stuff, though some he found fairly boring. Today, he was doing some reading, something he actually enjoyed, though he wasn’t likely to admit to doing so.   
“This is a good book mum,” he said, flipping a page and continuing to read  
Mum was distracted and said gently, “That’s nice. Keep reading.” She paced up and down, murmuring to herself, jumping at little noises. She barely nodded when Alora, their house elf, announced that his father was on his way home. And her pacing increased in tempo, so much so that he looked up and frowned at her, suddenly unsure and wishing she would tell him something, anything. But she merely shook her head and pointed to the book he was to read.  
“Yes mum,” he murmured, returning to it, though his mum’s mood was making it almost impossible for him to concentrate and he wasn’t seeing the words he was supposed to be reading. Sipping pumpkin juice her watched mum out of the corner of his eye, not letting her know he was doing so.   
POP!  
Looking up, he saw his dad apparate in. Only family – or those who had been told the proper spell – could apparate in. Anyone else was blocked from doing so, a protection his dad felt was necessary, and just one of many, not only on the building, but on themselves as well.   
“Be ready at any time love,” his dad said in his silky smooth voice, “Our spy reports if there is to be an attack here, it will likely be tonight. I sent Alora ahead and it is ready, and been given extra protection that we don’t have here.”  
His mum nodded, “I had a feeling. All afternoon I have been worried, more so than usual. Something just made me more anxious than is usual. He wished to go outside, but I said no. I can’t and won’t lose him, and if he were to go outside the grounds …”  
“Of course. I know this is not easy for him. But there is little choice. His safety will not be compromised for anything.”  
He turned to his dad and mum and stood up, about to demand to know what was going on, why they were so worried, and why they were so adamant about not letting him go outside, get answers. But …  
POP!  
POP!  
POP!  
POP!  
There was a series of pops, at least 4 and then nothing but confusion. He ducked down as spells went everywhere, all colors blasting through the air. Shouts and screams resounded throughout and he trembled. He was brave, but even with that, the confusion, the shouts, the spells, all combined to scare him. Of course, he had been antsy already with how mum had been behaving previously. Two screams he recognized resounded and he crawled towards a wand just lying on the floor.   
“MUM!”  
“DAD!”   
His arm outstretched he could feel his fingers touch the wand then felt himself flying through the air. He crashed into a wall and groaned. Looking, he saw mum and could tell she was calling his name, shouting it loud. But he couldn’t hear her anything she said, not a single word. He opened his mouth to say something … and then everything went dark. He came to in a dark room, completely disoriented and trying as hard as he could to remember what had happened. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the attackers at any point, and it had all happened before mum or dad could tell him anything. Someone had broken through the protections, though. Somehow they had figured them out and were powerful enough to overcome them. He groaned, head pounding, and looked around for any chance of an escape.   
“Don’t bother,” said a voice that at first seemed polite, but if one listened closely to it, it was more than obvious there was hate and disgust in every syllable, “We know what we are doing and you will go nowhere but where we want you to go. I am Artemis and I am a muggle. I paid – very well I might add – some wizards to attack your family, and to bring you here. You will do everything you are told to do, when you are told to do it, or you will not like the consequences.”  
He looked at the man, “No I won’t Artemis…” He was cut off as Artemis touched a hot iron to his side. He screamed and panted, sweating profusely.   
“You will call me sir. And you will say yes. You will do what I tell you,” Artemis said again. He shook his head again, and again Artemis pressed the hot iron against his side, holding it by the handle, the cord entirely wrapped around his hand. He bit back tears and then nodded, defeated, at least for the moment.  
“Yes sir. I will do as you say, sir.”  
Artemis grinned, “Good. Very good. You may eat and then you will clean up the kitchen and dining room, which were the sites for a rather large and satisfying supper.” Artemis set down a slice of bread and a tiny cup of water, then exited the room.   
He ate it quietly, too weak and hurt to even bother protesting. When Artemis came to get him, he followed, shocked when he saw the remnants of supper. Rather large had been somewhat of an understatement and there was a lot to clean. “Sir, I don’t know how…”  
Artemis slugged him then burned him again, “I don’t care for excuses or want to hear your mouth. Clean it!”   
“Yes sir.”   
He had cleaned it, better than he actually though he could, and then he was immediately taken to another room, and given more cleaning to do. For hours all he did was clean before Artemis finally led him back to the room. Artemis locked him in and he slowly fell asleep. It continued for days and weeks, and now more than a month.   
In the present:   
He screamed when he felt the burning again, and then the kick. He’d been busy remembering the events of the past few weeks, and forgot to listen for Artemis or his family to come in. Lucinda, the wife, was who had gotten him this time. She grabbed his chin with her sharp nails, drawing blood.   
“You are to work, not daydream. Get back to work, back to cleaning this mess up.” She “accidentally” spilled on the area he’d already cleaned, “Oops!” She burned him again, worse this time, then left the room. Swearing he was going to get away, get out of this, away from these muggles, he resumed cleaning, every muscle and bone aching, wanting nothing more than to just curl up, close his eyes, and just sleep. But he had his family’s stubbornness and pride in him and he continued, did the best job he could. He wouldn’t settle for second best, and he was going to do a job that was second best, no matter that it was under duress, and for these hideous people. Lucinda walked back in, dirty dishes in both arms, and set them down to be cleaned. She picked up the clean ones in both arms and walked past the light switch, plunging the kitchen into darkness. The boy was used to it and had gotten his eyes better at seeing in the dark, so he continued to clean, washing the new pile of dishes, leaving them spotless and shiny.   
He heard the family go out again but his demeanor didn’t change. They went out frequently and he had yet to find a way to get out, not even a door or window. He figured he just wasn’t finding the right room. As weak as he was, he was sure he was going in circles and repeating his path, but he doggedly tried to remember where he’d gone, to try and find a way.   
Finishing the dishes and the cleaning and checking the list for the next task, he paused to wash his hand and smooth back his hair. It was blonde, but was rather dirty and disheveled now, so that was rather difficult to see. He actually only had one more task to do and so he crawled weakly to the closet, got out the vacuum, and began to run it. He knew he had to vacuum every room of the house with carpet, top to bottom, no matter that most of the rooms weren’t even used and the carpet was immaculate. It took hours to finally vacuum all the rooms, there were so many, and he took his time returning the vacuum to the closet, his face sweaty and hot, his heart pounding. He felt disoriented and woozy, and felt like he was going to fall, that he would if he didn’t have the vacuum to keep him standing. He put the vacuum back in the closet and everything went black again. Coming to, he sat up, alarmed. If they were home and the found him asleep, he didn’t know what they would do. But the house remained quiet and dark, and it was obvious that no one was home as yet. From what he could tell he had not been passed out long, but he was so weak and disoriented that, for all he knew, it could have been hours that he lay there by the closet, passed out. No matter the case, he felt lucky not to have been caught and to still be alone in the house. Slowly, because he couldn’t move fast, he crawled through the house. Through the familiar rooms, he dragged his body, as usual seeing the same walls, the same furniture, the same lack of a way to get out, to escape. And then …  
He turned a corner and felt warm air, saw the tiny window. It was there and it was open. Not sure why or how, but not wanting to waste his chance, he crawled over to it. Slowly, weakly, he pushed the window up. Slowly, he slid out of the window, and slowly he dropped to the ground below. The air was warm, but not unbearably so, and the ground was wet, as though it had rained. He had no clue where he was no, nothing looked familiar to him, so he just inched, agonizingly, farther and farther from the house, to where he didn’t know. But anything was better than where he’d just been, better than that house and those people.   
Edging around the corner, he saw people and panicked, looking all around in terror. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere but back there. And either it was them and he was going to be dragged back and punished, or it was more strangers. No matter who the strangers were, better them than where he’d been. Pushing himself to the grass, he threw up, not that there was much to throw up. He threw up a second time, then just let his body go limp. All the fight was out of him. Whatever the people coming towards him did, there was nothing he could do about it.   
He didn’t know that in a house elsewhere in England a black-haired boy was being told what had gone on in the house, being shown memories of it. The black-haired boy rubbed his scar and nodded, almost to himself. He was going to help the boy in the memories, find him if possible, whatever it took.   
The blond boy sensed the lady kneeling by him and murmuring. He felt the gentle hands touching him and almost sensed her eyes as she looked him over, concern written all over her face. Tenderly but with strength and firmness, the lady lifted him up into her arms, murmuring that she’d take care of him, that he was going to be ok. A mother’s instinct told her the boy was maybe 8 or 9, but he looked much younger than that.  
“What is your name, little one?” she asked gently, “Can you tell me your name sweetie?”  
The boy opened his mouth and spoke, but weakly, “My name… my name… my name… my name is…my name is Drac..   
“Drake? That’s a very nice name,” the lady replied with a smile. Before he could say more, he fell asleep again.


End file.
